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elryuse · 2 months ago

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Pay To Play

Yandere Wonyoung X Male Reader

Tags : Dark Romance, Yandere, Obsessed, Obsession, Dangerous Love, Manipulation, Slight Smut Words : 5,282 Words

A Lovely Commision Work For My Friend @Pizza_anon From Ko-Fi I Hope You Guys Liked It.

You meet her on a night soaked in perfume and silence.

It’s a Tuesday — slow, heavy, and typical. The kind of night where laughter feels forced and your smile is mechanical, stitched on like a uniform. You’re halfway through a drink you didn’t order and pretending to enjoy a conversation with a bored office worker when the manager taps your shoulder.

“Table three. New client. Paid premium for you. Be good.”

You glance toward the velvet booth tucked in the corner. That’s when you see her.

She doesn’t look like she belongs here. She’s curled into herself, a soft cream sweater draped over narrow shoulders, hair falling like shadows over her face. She's not like the usual clientele — no designer handbag, no air of entitlement. Just big, doe-like eyes and fingers that fidget with the edge of her glass.

She looks lost.

You slip into the booth across from her, flashing your usual charming smile. The mask fits easily — it always does.

“Good evening,” you say smoothly. “I’m Kai. And you are…?”

She lifts her gaze to meet yours. Her eyes are strange — brown, but with flecks of gold like molten candlewax, staring too hard, too long. There’s hesitation in her voice.

“Wonyoung,” she whispers. “You’re… different from what I expected.”

You chuckle, tilting your head. “Is that a compliment?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”

“Hired a host?”

She nods, glancing around like she’s afraid someone might see her. “I thought it’d be awkward. But I just… I just wanted someone to talk to.”

You relax into the seat, your practiced posture giving way to a sliver of curiosity. Most clients want flattery, fake romance, or attention they don’t get at home. But this? This feels different.

“What do you want to talk about?” you ask.

She hesitates again. “Nothing in particular. I just… wanted company. I’ve been alone for a while.”

You talk. At first, it’s superficial — campus life, favorite drinks, the weather. You tell her half-truths. Say you’re studying business, that you like jazz, that your real name is Kai. She listens carefully, like every word is a thread she’s sewing into something secret.

But then she surprises you.

“Why did you become a host?” she asks one night, a week later, her eyes never leaving yours.

You lie easily. “Because rent doesn’t pay itself.”

But she doesn’t let up. She just watches. And there’s something about her silence that makes you falter.

You sigh. “Because it’s easier to be what people want… than to be real.”

“That’s lonely,” she says.

You nod.

“It is.”

She becomes a regular. Every Tuesday, same booth, same corner. She pays extra for longer sessions. You don’t ask why. You just start looking forward to the hour before midnight when she walks in, awkward and quiet, always dressed too plainly for a place like this.

But it’s not her clothes you remember. It’s the way she watches you — too deeply. Like she’s searching for cracks. Like she wants to consume the version of you beneath the mask.

She touches your hand once — an accident, she claims. Just a brush of fingers when she laughs too hard at something you said. But her touch lingers. And so does her stare.

“Do you ever get tired of pretending?” she asks the fifth time you meet.

You blink.

“What do you mean?”

“You smile all the time, but your eyes never smile.”

You pause, your façade cracking at the edges. No one’s ever said that to you before. Not the regulars. Not even the girls who pretend they’re in love with you.

You look at her a little closer that night.

Maybe too closely.

Two weeks later, she asks something you don’t expect.

“Do you ever think about seeing me outside of here?”

You’re trained to shut that down — it’s a boundary, a line that keeps your job clean. But you freeze. Because part of you has thought about it.

You look at her — really look.

There’s something unhinged buried deep in her smile. A twitch in the way she grips her glass. A silence too calculated.

“Where would we go?” you ask, finally.

She smiles, like she knew you’d say that. Like she planned this.

“Somewhere quiet. Just you and me.”

You meet her on a Sunday next. Against your better judgment. She finds you outside the university gates and tells you she’s been watching from across the street for weeks. She says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s sweet.

“I was curious about you,” she says. “You’re different outside of the club. You walk faster. You don’t smile.”

You laugh it off. But your stomach tightens.

That night, you sit with her at a late-night diner. She doesn’t eat. Just sips her tea and watches you.

“I think about you,” she says suddenly. “Too much. It's… frustrating.”

You look up. “Why?”

“Because you’re not mine.”

The air shifts. Her tone doesn’t match her words — it's too calm, too quiet. And yet, her fingers clutch the edge of the table like she’s barely holding back a storm.

“You paid for time,” you say. “Not ownership.”

She tilts her head.

“Doesn’t it ever get tiring? Having everyone touch you, pretend to love you? I wouldn’t be like that. I’d really mean it.”

You lean back, forcing a smirk. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

She smiles softly. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just seeing you more clearly than anyone else ever has.”

Later that night, you walk her home. Or at least, you think you do. But the next morning, you wake up to a photo under your door — a candid shot of you smoking behind the club, alone, from a few nights ago. No note. No explanation.

Just the photo.

You check your phone. No messages. You tell yourself it could’ve been anyone.

But when you arrive at the club that evening, the manager greets you with a sly smile.

“Your regular’s coming again tonight. She asked for the whole night this time.”

You already know who it is. You already feel the weight of her eyes on your skin. And deep down, you already know —

She’s not just some lonely girl.

She’s watching.

And she’s already claimed you.

You don’t take the train home that night.

There’s something about fluorescent lights and the hushed, exhausted stares of strangers that make your stomach twist. Instead, you walk. Through narrow alleys and over cracked pavement, past flickering streetlamps and buildings that lean like they’re tired of standing. The city smells like old rain, cigarettes, and piss. The sky hangs low, gray and bloated, like it might suffocate you if you looked up too long.

Your apartment is in a rotting complex tucked behind an abandoned parking structure. You climb the stairs — the elevator's been dead since last winter. You know which steps creak and which ones are damp with mold. You know the exact moment the smell changes from mildew to something more sour. It’s always the third floor. That’s when you know you’re home.

The door is unlocked, but you expected that.

Inside, the lights are off. You don’t bother flipping the switch. The apartment smells like stale beer and ash. A mess of unwashed dishes spills over the kitchen counter. Crumpled cigarette packs lie beneath the flickering TV, which is playing static at low volume.

Your father is passed out on the couch. Shirtless. One arm limp, the other wrapped around an empty bottle of soju like it's a lover. He mumbles something when you step over his feet, but you don’t care enough to listen. You never do anymore.

Your mother isn’t home. Again. It’s been two nights. You don’t ask questions. You stopped asking a long time ago, back when her perfume started to smell more like other people than herself. When the lipstick smudges on her collars weren’t hers.

You retreat into your room and lock the door. The mattress sags under your weight, the springs long dead. The room is quiet — too quiet — but it’s the only place that’s yours. You lie back and stare at the ceiling, cracked and yellowing with water damage. Your stomach growls, but you ignore it.

You close your eyes.

And for some reason… you think of her.

Your phone buzzes the next morning. You ignore it at first, thinking it’s another club text or a reminder to pay your tuition. But when you finally glance at the screen, it’s a name you didn’t expect.

[Wonyoung]: “You looked tired last night. Didn’t sleep well?”

Your pulse stutters. You never gave her your number.

You stare at the message, hesitant, then lock your screen without replying. Something about it itches at the edge of your thoughts. You brush it off, tell yourself she must’ve asked the manager — or maybe it’s some club database she slipped through.

Still, it bothers you.

You don’t go home after class. Instead, you head to a nearby bathhouse. It’s not fancy, but at least it’s clean. The water is cold, and the cracked mirrors reflect a version of you that looks just as broken. You scrub your skin until it stings, until the smell of perfume and cheap cologne fades.

And when you step outside, she’s there.

Standing across the street. Dressed casually in an oversized hoodie, holding two coffee cups in a paper bag. Her hair is tied back in a loose ponytail. She looks… harmless.

She waves at you, crosses the road, and presses a cup into your hand. “I guessed your order,” she says with a smile. “Black. No sugar.”

You blink. “How did you—”

“I watched,” she says before you can finish. “You always drink it that way at the club.”

You’re not sure whether to be impressed or unnerved.

You walk. She follows.

Down the side streets behind campus, where the wind carries silence better than sound. She skips occasionally, humming to herself, her steps light and breezy like she hasn’t done anything wrong.

You finally speak. “How did you get my number?”

She doesn’t answer at first. Just keeps walking, her eyes on the pavement.

“Wonyoung.”

She stops, then turns to you. The sun slices through the clouds and touches her face — soft, sweet, familiar. But her eyes hold something darker.

“You left your phone on the table that first night,” she says plainly. “I memorized your number from the lock screen. You were smiling in your wallpaper… but it wasn’t real.”

“You went through my phone?”

She shrugs. “You let strangers pay to touch your soul. I only wanted a glimpse.”

Her voice is light, innocent, but every word feels heavy. Calculated.

You step back. “That’s not okay.”

“I care about you,” she says, stepping closer again. “No one else does. Don’t act like you don’t feel it. Don’t act like you didn’t like waking up to someone thinking about you.”

You want to deny it. But her voice is warm. Her gaze — terrifyingly focused.

She whispers, “I don’t want to be a stranger. I want you to be mine.”

She starts showing up everywhere after that.

Outside your lecture halls. In line behind you at the cafeteria. Sitting on the bench across from the campus library. Always with that same gentle smile, like she was meant to be there. Like this is fate and you just haven’t realized it yet.

Sometimes she brings you snacks. Sometimes books. Sometimes just herself.

She doesn’t ask permission.

She starts asking questions — innocent at first. “What kind of music do you like?” “What was your dream as a kid?” “Do you ever cry alone at night?”

Then darker. “Have you ever wanted to disappear?” “Do you think anyone would miss you?” “Would you quit your job… for someone who loved you enough?”

One night, you come home and find groceries in your fridge. Real food — not instant noodles. There’s a note on the counter:

“You’re not taking care of yourself. Let me do it.”

No signature. No name. But you know it’s her.

Your skin crawls. You tear the note in half.

The next night, there’s a new towel in your bathroom. Soft, pink, with a lavender scent. You find your laundry done. The sheets changed. You don’t even remember leaving the window open.

You confront her behind the station the next morning. The alley is cold, and she’s standing by the vending machine with two canned coffees. She smiles like nothing is wrong.

“I didn’t give you a key,” you say.

She tilts her head. “Your lock was broken. I replaced it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I care about you,” she says softly, stepping close. “Why is that so scary for you? No one’s ever loved you, have they? Not really.”

You don’t respond.

She reaches out, brushing her fingers along your wrist. “Let me be the first.”

You pull away. Her expression falters. But then her smile sharpens.

“I can wait,” she murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She walks away, humming again. A melody that crawls into your brain like rot.

That night, you lie in bed staring at the ceiling again. The old water stain has grown. It looks like a blooming flower, dark and ugly.

You think about your father snoring in the living room, your mother’s absence, the cold silence that fills the apartment like fog.

And for the first time… You wonder if being wanted — even by someone unhinged — is better than being nothing at all.

The club is louder than usual tonight.

Laughter, the clinking of glasses, the low thrum of music vibrating through the floor — all of it feels exaggerated, like a performance turned up too high. You stand near the bar in your usual suit, your name tag clipped over your chest like a label someone else gave you. Smiles are mechanical, gestures practiced.

You're tired.

You haven’t slept much, haven’t eaten since yesterday. You keep glancing at your phone, the messages from Wonyoung replaying in your head, even though you deleted them twice. Her words still hum beneath your skin, soft as a needle sliding in.

Then you hear your name. Not your real name — the one you use in here.

A manager’s voice. “You’ve been requested.”

You already know who it is.

She's sitting in a private booth in the back. The lights above her glow low and warm, casting shadows across her face, making her skin look porcelain, her eyes impossibly wide. For a second, she doesn’t see you. She’s swirling her drink, fingers wrapped around the stem of a wine glass, her legs crossed.

She’s wearing black.

A sleek, almost sinful dress. Velvet, low-cut. It clings to her body like it was poured onto her. She’s wearing sheer stockings, the faint outline of her thighs visible through the fine mesh. Her lips are painted crimson, and her hair falls over one shoulder in soft waves.

And yet — something’s wrong.

You don’t feel the usual intensity, the suffocating obsession you’ve come to expect from her. Instead, she looks… sad. No — more than that.

Empty.

“Hey,” you say gently as you step into the booth. “Rough day?”

She looks up. And when she sees you, something flickers in her expression — relief, maybe. Longing. Her smile is faint, not the dangerous kind you’ve seen before. Just… tired.

“You came,” she whispers.

“I was requested.”

She nods, almost ashamed. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

You sit down slowly, careful not to lean too close. “What happened?”

She laughs, soft and bitter. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

For a long moment, she doesn’t speak. Her fingers trace the rim of her glass. You notice her nails are chipped tonight. Her lipstick is slightly smudged. The perfect, flawless Wonyoung — cracked, for the first time.

“I saw someone today,” she murmurs. “Someone from my past.”

You raise a brow. “Old friend?”

“Not exactly.” She takes a sip, gaze fixed on the dark liquid. “It was my mother.”

That makes you pause. “Didn’t know you had family in the city.”

“I don’t,” she says quickly. “She didn’t come for me. She never does. She was just… there. At a hotel downtown. With some man. I watched them from the lobby, and she didn’t even recognize me.”

You don’t know what to say. You feel her pain clawing beneath her words like something feral.

“I thought maybe she’d changed,” she continues, her voice tighter now. “That maybe she’d see me, say something, apologize. But she didn’t. She just laughed. Like I never existed.”

You reach for her hand — instinctively, maybe. She doesn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

She looks at you, really looks at you. And something in her eyes burns hotter than anything else in the club.

“I thought if I made myself beautiful, desirable, someone would notice. Someone would stay.” Her voice is glass on skin. “But it’s not enough, is it? Nothing ever is.”

You stay silent.

Then she leans forward, close enough that you smell her perfume — rose and smoke and something faintly metallic.

“But you notice me, don’t you?” she whispers. “You see me.”

“I do.”

Her lips part slightly. You think she might kiss you, but instead she lets her forehead rest against your shoulder. Her body shudders — maybe with a sigh, maybe a sob — and you wrap your arm around her before you even realize what you’re doing.

The two of you sit like that for a while. In silence. In the dark booth surrounded by false laughter and fake affection, you hold her — and for the first time, she feels real.

Then she pulls back slowly and looks up at you with something dangerous in her gaze.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” she says. “Will you come with me?”

You should say no.

Every red flag is waving at full mast. The obsessive messages. The groceries. The creeping sense that she knows things she shouldn’t. But the desperation in her voice twists something inside you. Something bruised. Something lonely.

You nod once.

Her smile is slow, haunting.

Her apartment is… immaculate.

Too immaculate. Everything is white and silver and spotless. No mess. No clutter. No warmth. It feels like a hotel room designed by someone trying too hard to appear normal. There are no pictures. No memories.

She kicks off her heels and pads barefoot to the kitchen, pouring wine into two tall glasses.

You wander, eyes catching on a closed door near the hallway.

“Don’t go in there,” she says without turning around.

You freeze.

She walks over, presses a glass into your hand. “That room’s not for guests.”

You don’t ask.

She curls beside you on the couch, pulling her knees up, her thigh brushing yours through the black silk of her dress. Her shoulder leans into you. Her presence — soft, aching, yet terrifying in how badly you’ve come to recognize it.

“I want to keep you,” she murmurs.

You laugh nervously. “I’m not a pet.”

“You’re not a stranger, either.” Her fingers trace the edge of your sleeve. “I’m not letting go. Not after this.”

You swallow hard.

“I’ll be anything you need,” she says. “I’ll be your home, your obsession, your punishment. Just don’t leave me. Promise me you won’t.”

You open your mouth — to lie, to comfort, you don’t even know — but her lips press against yours before you can speak.

The kiss is deep, desperate, dangerous. Her mouth tastes like wine and sorrow. Her fingers grip your shirt like she’s afraid you’ll vanish. And part of you wants to vanish. Wants to fall into this moment and never surface again.

When she finally pulls away, her breath is hot against your cheek.

“I saw your home once,” she whispers.

Your blood goes cold.

“I followed you. Just once. I saw your father on the floor. The broken lights. The rot in the walls. And I thought… how dare they treat something so precious like trash.”

You pull back slightly, blinking.

“I want to give you everything they didn’t,” she says. “I’ll build you a new world. One where you never have to feel small or unwanted again.”

Your heart slams in your chest.

And you realize — this isn’t a crush.

This is a girl who's decided you’re hers.

No matter what it costs.

The first time you make love to Wonyoung, it feels like falling.

Not into pleasure — though there is that — but into something deeper, hungrier. A plunge into dark waters where everything is quiet and nothing is safe.

Her body is soft and warm beneath yours, but her eyes never stop watching. Even as she moans, even as her back arches and her fingers claw into your skin, she doesn’t look away. She stares into you like she’s memorizing every breath, every twitch, every weakness.

After, she rests her head on your chest and exhales like she’s finally alive.

“Did it feel good?” she whispers.

You hesitate, then nod.

She smiles. Not her usual sly, calculating one — but a soft, content one. A smile that almost makes her look human again.

“Good,” she breathes. “Then I won’t let anyone else touch you. Ever.”

You lie still, heart racing. Her words settle on your skin like ash.

She falls asleep wrapped around you, possessive even in her dreams. And in the silence of her sterile white apartment, beneath the hum of the fridge and the faint city noise, you lie awake and realize something terrifying:

You don’t want to leave.

The next night at the club feels different.

You wear your best suit. You fix your tie twice in the mirror. Your body still aches faintly from the night before — from her fingernails, from her weight, from the way she whispered your name like a secret spell.

She hasn’t messaged you tonight.

It feels strange.

Not wrong… just off.

The club is buzzing again. The music, the alcohol, the artificial laughter. You’re back in character, smiling on cue, bowing to the regulars. But you’re distracted — every time the door opens, you look up, expecting to see her in another black dress, waiting to possess you.

But she hasn’t shown.

Instead, someone else walks in.

You don’t recognize her — not that that’s unusual. New customers come all the time. But this one is different.

She’s standing near the entrance, unsure. Her eyes are wide, her posture stiff. She’s overdressed — a frilly dress that doesn’t fit the sultry tone of the club. Her hands are clasped in front of her like she’s in a museum, not a host bar.

Her friends — two loud girls in designer skirts — are dragging her along, laughing and chattering.

One of them says something to the receptionist. Almost instantly, the girl next to her is paired with a tall host named Hiro, and the third is swept up by Ren, who always gets the flashy clients.

But the shy girl hesitates. She stands by herself, shrinking into her seat. You watch her. Something about the way she looks around, uncertain, out of place, makes your chest twist.

She’s nothing like Wonyoung.

She doesn’t ooze confidence. She doesn’t dress to kill. She isn’t playing a game.

She’s just… here. Awkward. Lost.

Your manager walks by and taps your shoulder. “That one,” he mutters. “The quiet one. Go warm her up, yeah?”

You nod and walk toward her.

She notices you when you’re just a few steps away. Her eyes widen, and she straightens up, clearly nervous.

“Hi,” you say gently. “May I join you?”

She nods quickly, too quickly. “Y-Yes. Please.”

You sit down, keeping your voice low and warm. “First time?”

She blushes. “Is it that obvious?”

You smile. “Only a little.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers tremble slightly. “My friends dragged me here… I didn’t think I’d actually— I mean, they said it would be fun, but this is a little— overwhelming.”

You nod. “It can be, at first.”

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” she says, eyes darting around. “You all seem so… confident.”

“We’re just good actors,” you say, chuckling.

She smiles — shy, but real.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Then she asks, “Do you do this every night?”

You hesitate. “Almost every night.”

She looks down at her drink. “Do you ever get tired of pretending to like people?”

The question hits harder than you expect.

You think of Wonyoung. The way she looked at you. The way she touched you like she owned every inch of you. The way her voice haunted your dreams last night.

You think of how none of that felt like pretending.

You don’t answer the girl.

She looks up at you again, her eyes wide and searching. “Sorry. That was too personal.”

“No,” you say softly. “It’s fine. I just… didn’t expect a question like that.”

She gives a small laugh. “I guess I’m not very good at this kind of thing.”

“You’re doing better than most.”

She blushes again.

And in that moment, something shifts in you. Not attraction — not yet. But curiosity. She’s gentle. Real. The kind of girl you might’ve met in another life. In a life where your mother didn’t sell herself and your father didn’t drink himself into oblivion. A life without broken homes and false smiles.

She offers her name — Yura.

You repeat it once, softly. It fits her.

You’re just starting to relax when you feel it.

The hair on the back of your neck rises.

You turn, instinctively scanning the club.

And there she is.

Wonyoung.

Standing in the shadows by the bar. Dressed in blood-red tonight, her eyes locked on you and Yura like a wolf who just caught a trespasser in her territory.

Your heart drops.

She wasn’t supposed to come tonight.

Not when you’re with someone else.

Not when you’re pretending to enjoy another girl’s presence.

Her gaze doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waver. Her lips are parted slightly, like she’s savoring the image of you — sitting with someone else, smiling, listening.

She tilts her head.

And she smiles.

But it’s not a kind smile.

It’s a promise.

A warning.

And in that moment, you know:

Something bad is going to happen.

You don’t sleep well after that night.

You see Wonyoung’s face every time you close your eyes — the way she stared at you while you were with Yura, the stillness of her expression, the slow, deliberate smile that curled across her lips.

You’d excused yourself from Yura early, told the manager you weren’t feeling well. But even after leaving the club, you felt her. Not just watching — waiting. Somewhere in the dark, she lingered.

You don’t hear from her for two days.

No messages. No calls.

And somehow, that silence is worse than any confrontation.

When she finally reappears, it’s at the club again — unannounced, unbooked, walking straight past the receptionist as if the place belongs to her. She finds you near the bar, polishing glasses and keeping your head down. You freeze when you hear her voice.

“Let’s talk.”

You turn slowly. She’s in another black dress, this one tighter, with a slit high enough to expose her thigh. Her makeup is perfect, but her eyes — her eyes are tired. Wild.

You try to smile. “Wonyoung—”

“Now,” she says. No smile. No pleasantries.

You follow her to a private booth, out of habit more than choice.

She sits across from you, crosses her legs, and places her bag delicately beside her like she’s about to make a business proposal.

“I want you to quit,” she says.

Your throat tightens. “What?”

“Quit this job. Quit this club. Come live with me. I’ll take care of you.”

You blink, disoriented. “Wonyoung, I can’t just—”

“You can,” she interrupts. “You just don’t want to.”

“I have bills. Tuition. I—”

“I’ll pay them.”

Your stomach churns. “You don’t even know me that well.”

“I know enough. I know you don’t sleep at night. I know your eyes are always searching for something that doesn’t exist. I know you’re lonely.” Her voice softens. “I see you, even when no one else does.”

You stare at her, stunned by how earnestly she says it. How desperately.

“You don’t understand,” you murmur. “This isn’t a fairy tale.”

“No,” she whispers. “It’s a prison. And I’m offering you the key.”

You hesitate too long.

She sees it.

Her face drops. The silence between you stretches, then cracks like glass.

“You don’t trust me,” she says, more to herself than you.

“I didn’t say that—”

“Then why are you still here?” she says sharply. “Why do you keep pretending this is okay? Working in a place like this, selling pieces of yourself to strangers, night after night?”

“It’s not like that—”

She slams her hand on the table, loud enough to make you flinch. Her voice is trembling now. “You let that girl touch you. You smiled at her like she meant something.”

“She was just a client.”

“And what am I?” Her voice breaks. “Am I not enough?”

You try to calm her. “Wonyoung, you’re not thinking straight.”

But she stands suddenly. “Fine. If you won’t come with me willingly…”

You blink. “What?”

The world turns black before you can finish the sentence.

When you wake up, your head is pounding.

The air is cold, but the blanket draped over you is silk. The lights are dim. For a moment, you don’t recognize the room — it’s too big, too sterile, too quiet. The walls are glass and steel. Expensive. Minimalist. The air smells faintly of lavender and something colder — antiseptic, maybe.

You try to sit up.

Your arms are heavy.

Something’s… wrong.

You look down and realize: your wrists are cuffed. Silk-lined, yes — but restraints all the same.

Panic starts to rise in your throat.

“What the hell—?”

“You’re awake.”

Her voice is soft now. Almost motherly.

You turn your head slowly, and there she is. Wonyoung. Standing in the doorway of her penthouse suite, wearing nothing but a silk robe that falls off one shoulder. Her hair is damp, like she just stepped out of the shower. Her eyes gleam with something dangerous.

“Wonyoung—what the fuck is this?”

“You needed rest,” she says simply. “You were overworked. Stressed. I did what any caring lover would do.”

“Let me go.”

She smiles. Walks toward you. “You’ll feel better after breakfast. I had the chef prepare your favorite.”

“I never told you my favorite.”

Her smile widens. “You talk in your sleep.”

Your stomach knots. “This is insane.”

“No,” she says softly. “This is love.”

She kneels by the side of the bed and places a hand on your chest. “No more noise. No more fake smiles for strangers. No more pretending to be okay. You’re safe now. With me.”

Tears prick your eyes — not from fear, but fury. “You can’t just lock me up.”

“I can,” she says gently. “And I did.”

You yank your arms again, but the cuffs are tight.

“Let me go, Wonyoung.”

Her expression darkens. “Say it again, and I’ll have to hurt you.”

You go still.

And she smiles again. Brushes your hair from your face. “You’ll see, baby. You’ll love it here. You’ll never need to beg for attention again. I’ll give you everything. Everything.”

You look into her eyes and finally understand.

This isn’t infatuation.

This isn’t love.

This is possession.

And she doesn’t intend to ever let you go.